3501 
A5358' 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A  WEB  OF  THOUGHTS 


A   WEB   OF  THOUGHTS 


BY 


MARJORIE    ANDERSON 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


The     Four     Seas     Press 
Boston,    Mass.,   U.   S.  A. 


35~OI 

w 


To  MY  MOTHER  AND  FATHER 


904137 


CONTENTS 

Pa&e 

MIRACLES 27 

TRUTH  AND  BEAUTY 28 

IN  A  PUBLIC  LIBRARY 29 

THE  THINKER  AND  THE  SINGER 30 

THE  LOST  VISION 31 

LIVING  PORTRAITS 32 

TRAVELS 33 

THE  STAR-GAZERS 36 

GOD'S  ANSWER 37 

TREASURES 38 

WISHES 39 

THE  BLUE  HOLE 40 

THE  SUNDIAL 41 

SONGS 43 

DISAPPOINTMENTS 44 

HOLLYHOCKS 45 

To  MY  Doc 46 

SYMBOLS 47 

THE  RAINBOW 48 

EYES 50 

A  MEMORY  OF  THE  WAR 52 

DREAMS 53 


A  WEB  OF  THOUGHTS 


A  WEB  OF  THOUGHTS 

I  sit  within  the  tower  room 
Of  my  gray-walled  Shalott, 
And  weave  amidst  the  magic  gloom 
My  web  of  thoughts,  upon  a  loom 
Of  memories  half  forgot. 

At  times  the  thoughts  are  passing  keen 
Like  goodly  errant  knights, 
And  then  anon  they  lose  their  sheen, 
And  hang,  a  tangled,  misty  screen, 
Like  a  spider  web  o'  nights. 

Here  comes  in  cap  and  bells  of  yore 
A  merry,  freakish  thought, 
And  now  dull  murmurings  o'er  and  o'er, 
Waves  lapping  on  a  lonely  shore, 
With  wistful  sadness  fraught. 

And  thoughts  there  are  like  chimes  that  peal 
From  some  cathedral  spire, 
So  far  aloof;  while  others  feel 
Like  burning  coals  that  half  reveal 
The  secrets  of  the  fire. 

And  so  I  sit  within  the  room 
In  my  gray-towered  Shalott, 
And  weave  amidst  its  magic  gloom 
A  web  of  thoughts,  upon  a  loom 
Of  memories  half  forgot. 

[9] 


THREE  FRIENDS 

One  friend  I  have  who  is  to  me 

A  shining  highway  broad, 
Which  stretches  forward  evenly, 

Up  to  the  throne  of  God. 

Another  friend  is  like  the  fire, 
Whose  warm  and  merry  flame 

Leaps  ever  upward,  high  and  higher, 
Changing  and  yet  the  same. 

But  you  are  like  the  wind  which  sweeps 

The  cloudy  mists  away. 
You  breathe  upon  my  soul  that  sleeps, 

And  waken  it  to  day. 


[10] 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE 

Our  house  is  filled  with  friendly  souls 
Who  haunt  its  many  rooms, 

And  linger  like  the  fragrance  born 
In  delicate  perfumes. 

i 

One  spirit  is  a  dreamer,  old 

With  never-ending  youth, 
Who  listens  to  the  harmonies 

We  weave  in  search  of  truth. 

Another  is  a  red- cheeked  dame 

With  kindly,  genial  face, 
Who  from  her  fireside  corner,  shares 

Our  daily  commonplace. 

Sometimes  the  spirits  change.     I  know 

The  lady,  pink  and  gold, 
With  silken  gown  and  formal  smile 

Who  ruled  one  room  of  old, 

Has  vanished  quite,  and  in  her  place, 

A  lad  in  student  guise 
Lives  with  the  past,  the  glowing  love 

Of  wisdom  in  his  eyes. 

These  spirits  live;  but  oh!  the  rooms 
Whose  closed  doors  once  stood  wide ! 

Their  souls  have  flown  away,  and  I — 
I  fain  would  stand  outside. 

[n] 


"YOU'RE  LIKE  A  STRAIN  OF  MUSIC" 

You're  like  a  strain  of  music  in  my  heart, 
Sometimes  a  plaintive  measure,  hushed  and  slow, 
Then  filled  with  fiery  notes  that  throb  and  glow; 
But  oftenest  you're  just  a  gypsy  air, 
That,  wandering  aimless,  haunts  me  everywhere. 


[12] 


SOAPBUBBLES 

Castles  in  the  air! 

Watch  them  as  they  grow ! 
Rainbow-hued  they  stand 

Proof  'gainst  any  foe. 

Castles  in  the  air! 

Whither  have  they  flown? 
Only  I  am  left 

Blowing  bubbles  all  alone. 


[13] 


THE  THREE  TREES 

Three  trees  stood  on  a  lonely  heath, 

Outlined  against  the  sky; 
The  wind  swept  through  them  ceaselessly 

With  plaintive,  whispered  sigh. 

With  dragging  steps,  a  traveler  sought 

Beneath  their  shade  to  rest ; 
His  dusty  garments,  sorely  stained, 

Plainly  his  plight  confessed. 

And  as,  exhausted,  fast  he  slept, 

Lulled  by  the  fleeting  breeze, 
He  heard  three  voices  faint  and  far, 

The  voices  of  the  trees. 

"Upon  my  boughs,"  the  first  one  said, 

"Full  many  a  year  ago, 
A  man  was  hanged."     A  shudder  shook 

The  sleeper  down  below. 

The  second  sighed,  "Within  my  trunk 

Is  hid  a  lady  fair, 
Who  at  his  death  changed  to  a  nymph, 

His  resting  place  to  share." 

The  third  voice  laughed,  "No  mournful  tale 

Of  death  or  love  have  I, 
But  'neath  my  roots  the  gold  he  brought 

Deep  buried  still  does  lie." 

[14] 


The  sleeper  wakened  with  a  start, 
And  peered  to  left  and  right ; 

Upon  the  lifeless,  empty  heath 
No  creature  was  in  sight. 

The  trees  like  silent  watchmen  stood, 
One  tall  and  gaunt  and  dread, 

Another  drooping,  frail,  the  third 
With  sturdy  boughs  low-spread. 

Upon  the  last  he  stared  in  thought, 
Then  dug  with  feverish  haste, 

Until  he  found  the  treasure-box 
The  dead  man  there  had  placed. 

Then  quickly  and  with  buoyant  step 

He  started  on  his  way. 
"He  has  left  love  behind  him,"  soft 

The  second  tree  did  say. 

"He  has  escaped  my  ruthless  doom 
For  this  time,"  warned  the  first. 

"He  did  not  hear,"  the  third  tree  scoffed, 
"How  the  treasure  has  been  cursed." 


[15] 


A  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY  LYRIC 

I  heard  a  bird  a-caroling, 

Perched  high  upon  a  tree; 

His  notes  like  merry  chimes  did  ring, 

And  scatter  melody. 

Yet  though  he  filled  the  air  with  trills, 

My  pulses  did  not  start ; 

But  when  fair  Cynthia  sings,  it  thrills 

My  very  heart. 

If  I  might  hear  the  angels'  song 

Within  the  heavenly  gate, 

I  know  my  soul  would  find  it  long 

And  wearisome  to  wait, 

Until  I  heard  sweet  Cynthia's  voice 

In  that  celestial  choir. 

Ah!  then  my  spirit  would  rejoice 

With  quickening  fire. 


[16] 


THE  HIGHROAD 

(A  Lyric) 

Winding  up  and  winding  down 
On  a  misty  April  morning, 
Like  a  queen  in  silver  gown, 
Dewdrops  bright  her  hair  adorning; 
Winding  down  and  winding  up, 
Summer  madness  comes  soon  after, 
Like  a  gypsy  now,  her  cup 
Filled  with  laughter. 


[17] 


WHEN  CHOPIN  PLAYED 

When  Chopin  played  amidst  the  gloom 
Of  some  dim,  candle-lighted  room, 
Then  men  were  moved  beneath  the  spell 
Of  golden  notes  that  rose  and  fell, 
To  dream  of  southern  isles  in  bloom, 
And  gardens  full  of  soft  perfume, 
Or  moonbeams  on  some  knight's  carved  tomb, 
Or  raindrops  in  a  sheltered  dell, 
When  Chopin  played. 

But  soon  the  dreams  have  met  their  doom, 
The  pattern  changes  on  the  loom, 
For  every  cavalier  and  belle 
Now  hears  the  magic  waltzes  swell. 
Ah!  who  could  flirt  with  fan  or  plume 
When  Chopin  played? 


[18] 


FOUR  SCENES  FROM  SCHUMANN'S 
"CARNAVAL" 


PIERROT 

On  quaint  and  deftly  pointed  toes, 

With  noiseless  step  he  comes  and  goes, 

As  if  with  velvet  he  were  shod, 

Or  on  some  dew-drenched  lawn  had  trod. 

His  white  face  like  a  staring  clock 

Is  witless,  but  the  red  lips  mock 

In  silence,  till  with  a  laughing  jeer, 

He's  fled  to  the  moonlight,  ghostly  and  clear. 

II 

HARLEQUIN 

Is  Harlequin 

A  sprite?    The  maddest  of  them  all 
Is  Harlequin. 

His  tireless  feet  in  circles  spin, 
Casting  weird  shadows  on  the  wall. 
Whirlwind  in  motley  at  the  ball 
Is  Harlequin. 

[19] 


Ill 


THE  COQUETTE 


With  a  flirt  of  her  fan 
And  a  gay  pirouette 
Her  attack  she  began, 
With  a  flirt  of  her  fan. 
Away  she  then  ran, 
Every  inch  a  coquette, 
With  a  flirt  of  her  fan 
And  a  gay  pirouette. 


IV 

PANTALOON  AND  COLUMBINE 

Pantaloon  and  Columbine 
Softly  on  their  tiptoes  meeting, 
Dainty  measures  intertwine 
With  a  hasty  whispered  greeting. 
In  pursuit  away  they're  fleeting, 
Like  two  bits  of  gay  festoon, 
She  disdaining,  he  entreating, 
Columbine  and  Pantaloon. 


[20] 


A  DRESDEN  SHEPHERDESS 

A  little  Dresden  shepherdess, 
With  gleaming,  powdered  hair, 
And  dazzling  smile,  I  must  confess 
She  seemed  a  thing  so  rare, 
Incarnate  youth  and  happiness, 
I  bought  her  with  a  song. — 
A  song  may  be  a  brief  caress, 
But  smiles  last  long— too  long. 


[21] 


THE  THREE  WOODCUTTERS 
(A  translation  of  a  French  folk-song) 

There  were  three  woodcutters  on  the  green, 

(Hark,  hark  to  the  nightingale!) 
There  were  three  woodcutters  on  the  green, 
Who  talked  to  a  maid,  the  village  queen, 

Oh,  the  nightingale  is  singing! 

The  youngest  said,  (he  held  a  rose) 

(Hark,  hark  to  the  nightingale!) 
The  youngest  said,  who  held  the  rose, 
"I  love,  but  I  dare  not  my  love  disclose." 

Oh,  the  nightingale  is  singing! 

The  oldest  cried,  with  an  axe  in  his  hand, 

(Hark,  hark  to  the  nightingale!) 
The  oldest  cried,  with  an  axe  in  his  hand, 
"Wherever  I  love,  there  I  shall  command." 

Oh,  the  nightingale  is  singing! 

The  third  sang,  bearing  a  flower  blue, 

(Hark,  hark  to  the  nightingale!) 
The  third  sang,  bearing  his  flower  blue, 
"I  love,  for  your  love  in  return  I  sue." 

Oh,  the  nightingale  is  singing! 

"My  friend  you  are  not,  you  who  carry  the  rose," 

( Hark,  hark  to  the  nightingale ! ) 
"My  friend  you  are  not,  you  who  carry  the  rose, 
If  you  dare  not,  I  dare  not  love  disclose." 

Oh,  the  nightingale  is  singing! 

[22] 


"My  master  you  are  not,  with  the  axe  in  your  hand," 

(Hark,  hark  to  the  nightingale!) 
"My  master  you  are  not,  with  the  axe  in  your  hand, 
For  true  love  can  never  come  at  command." 

Oh,  the  nightingale  is  singing! 

"My  love  you  shall  be,  with  your  flower  blue," 

(Hark,  hark  to  the  nightingale!) 
"My  love  you  shall  be,  with  your  flower  blue, 
For  all  is  given  to  those  who  sue." 

Oh,  the  nightingale  is  singing! 


[23] 


COROT'S  "DANCE  OF  THE  NYMPHS" 

Under  the  trees  all  misty  and  grey  in  the  haze  of  the 
morning, 

Lords  of  the  forest  with  ivy-twined  trunks,  and  silvery 
birches, 

In  and  out  gayly  flutter  the  dancers,  all  secrecy  scorn 
ing, 

Light-hearted  nymphs  of  the  woodland,  by  mortal 
unseen  if  he  searches 

Boldly,  but  sometimes  revealed  to  the  poet  who 
watches  enraptured; 

Hand  in  hand  they  encircle  a  satyr  from  slumber  half- 
risen, 

Roused  from  his  dreams  of  elysian  freedom  to  find 
himself  captured 

Fast  in  a  net  of  shimmering  beauty,  a  scintillant  prison. 


[24] 


NAMES 

Like  the  hilt  of  a  sword  richly  jewelled,  whose  sheen 
Makes  the  blade  seem  the  straighter,  the  sword-hand 

more  keen; 

Like  a  binding  of  vellum,  old,  priceless,  renowned, 
'Twixt  whose  covers  the  soul  of  a  saint  may  be  found ; 
Like  the  sign  of  an  inn  with  its  message  of  cheer, 
Or  the  door  to  a  passage  of  darkness  and  fear, 
Like  the  blare  of  a  trumpet,  an  ivory  frame — 
Is  the  magical  power  concealed  in  a  name. 


[25] 


MASKS 

Within  a  treasure-house  whose  marble  halls 

Are  heaped  with  riches  gleaned  from  years  gone  by, 

Amid  its  glowing,  beauty-laden  walls, 

A  group  of  Grecian  masks  arrests  the  eye. 

Behind  that  staring  face,  did  men  once  hear 

The  weeping  of  Antigone,  the  rage 

Of  Oedipus?     Did  they  applaud  the  leer 

Of  these  weird  gargoyles  of  a  classic  age? 

To  us  who  love  to  see  the  changing  moods 

Reflected  in  a  face,  it  seems  unreal; 

But  still  behind  stage-laughter  often  broods 

A  troubled  spirit,  grief  that  will  not  heal. 

Perchance  the  Greeks  were  after  all  more  kind; 

We  have  no  friendly  masks  to  hide  behind. 


[26] 


MIRACLES 

I  listen  to  God's  voice  among  the  trees, 
Mid  whose  arched  boughs  the  sunbeams  intertwine, 
The  birds  pour  forth  their  worship  half  divine, 
Then  take  to  flight  upon  the  summer  breeze. 
Above  my  head,  like  drone  of  countless  bees, 
A  birdman  soars;  in  yon  cathedral  shrine 
With  myriad  colors  soft  the  sun's  rays  shine, 
The  organ  peals  forth  golden  harmonies. 

The  wonders  of  God's  world  not  made  with  hands 
Man  cannot  reach,  but  he  was  given  the  power 
Of  moulding  beauty,  and  his  handwork  stands, 
God's  seal  upon  it.     In  the  creator's  hour 
He  follows  humbly  where  his  Master  trod; 
Man's  miracles  are  also  works  of  God. 


TRUTH  AND  BEAUTY 

Last  night  I  watched  the  heaven's  starry  flight, 

Saw  Jupiter  with  golden  face  serene, 

The  rings  of  Saturn  girdling  him  with  light, 

The  dazzling  brilliance  of  proud   Beauty's  queen. 

And  as  I  gazed  my  wonder  grew  apace, 

That  such  vast  power  was  given  to  mortal  man, 

To  bring  down  truth  from  out  the  boundless  space, 

And  bridge  the  heavens  with  her  mighty  span. 

And  yet  I  find  more  beauty  in  a  sky 

Whose  gloomy  depths,  unfathomed,  are  aflame 

With  gleaming  jewels  of  light,  that  shine  on  high 

Like  flashing  diamonds  in  an  ebon  frame. 

Grave  truth  has  breathed  her  secrets  in  our  ears, 

But  must  we  lose  the  music  of  the  spheres? 


[28] 


IN  A  PUBLIC  LIBRARY 

Within  its  welcoming  portals,  open  wide 
To  all,  they  come  and  go,  a  motley  throng, 
Some  seeking  wisdom,  others  with  the  strong 
And  beckoning  hand  of  fancy  as  their  guide. 
Tis  fancy  leads  them  where  the  bluebirds  hide 
And  fill  the  heavens  with  happy-throated  song, 
Or  where  the  pounding  hoof -beats  fly  along 
Some  winding  western  trail  which  cowboys  ride. 
She  gives  to  each  the  keys  of  old  romance, 
Which  open  doors  their  longing  souls  have  missed, 
Shut  in  by  darkened  walls  of  circumstance; 
Beneath  her  sway  they  loose  the  baffling  twist 
Of  hidden  crime,  or  seize  life's  winning  chance, 
Fond  lovers  whom  her  magic  lips  have  kissed. 


THE  THINKER  AND  THE  SINGER 

A  master  of  man's  thought,  he  wields  a  pen 

So  Titan-like  in  power,  one  hears  the  peal 

Of  Thor's  bold  thunder,  or  the  clash  of  steel 

When  sword  meets  sword  amongst  earth's  supermen. 

A  singer  of  man's  songs,  in  him  again 

Apollo  treads  the  earth ;  we  humbly  kneel 

Before  the  beauty  that  his  words  reveal, 

A  melody  from  worlds  beyond  our  ken. 

The  thinkers  and  the  singers  of  this  world, 
Both  richly  gifted  with  a  power  divine, 
Too  often  have  their  banners  wide  unfurled 
In  hostile  camps,  paid  homage  to  one  shrine 
Alone.     Would  that  more  often  we  might  see 
Thor's  strength  linked  with  Apollo's  melody ! 


[30] 


THE  LOST  VISION 

A  fisherman!     And  you  were  living  when 

Herod  ruled  in  Galilee?     Ah!  then 

You  surely  must  have  seen  Christ  walk 

Among  the  fields,  and  heard  Him  talk 

Beside  the  lake.     Perhaps  'twas  you  He  healed. 

Or  were  you  one  of  those  who  kneeled 

To  kiss  His  garment  as  He  passed  along, 

So  calm  amidst  the  adoring  throng? 

Tell  us  who  live  so  far  in  time  and  place, 

How  felt  you  when  you  saw  Him  face  to  face? 

You're  silent  and  your  head  is  bowed. 

Too  sacred  is  it  to  be  said  aloud? 

Forgive  the  violation  of  a  shrine 

On  which  is  laid  a  memory  divine. 

But  no,  you  start  at  last  to  speak! 

You  say  you're  not  the  man  whom  we  would  seek! 

And  why?     Because  when  Christ  was  preaching  there 

In  your  small  town,  you  had  no  time  to  spare 

From  mending  nets  that  day,  no  time  to  run 

After  some  strolling  preacher,  none 

To  waste  with  idle  crowds.     And  so 

You  missed  the  Son  of  Man.     How  could  you  know, 

As  on  the  ground  you  gazed,  that  in  the  sky 

The  glory  of  the  stars  was  passing  by? 


[31] 


LIVING  PORTRAITS 

A  room  of  portraits  old  and  rare, 
With  silent  lips  and  painted  stare, 
Oppresses  you?     Then  let  me  show 
You  living  portraits  just  as  fair. 

That  woman  with  the  thoughtful  eyes, 
Serene,  wide-open,  and  all-wise, 
Her  oval  face  tinged  with  faint  glow, 
Is  some  madonna  from  the  skies. 

And  yonder  man  with  sidelong  glance, 
Where  imps  of  laughter  lurk  and  dance, 
Is  but  the  "Laughing  Cavalier," 
That  dashing  knight  of  old  romance. 

And  here's  a  nymph  for  Fragonard, 
As  dainty  as  spring  flowers  are; 
And  there's  a  classic  face,  severe, 
A  flawless  mask,  without  a  scar. 

Many  others  I  could  add, 

Yet  looking  at  them  makes  me  sad. 

Live  works  of  art!  but  did  you  see 

What  stained  and  tarnished  frames  they  had? 


TRAVELS 

I  was  weary  of  known  places, 
Sights  so  old  they  seemed  akin 
To  the  fragile,  dainty  laces 
Which  they  used  to  weave  and  spin, 
Lying  now,  their  worth  forgotten,  faded,  wrinkled,  and 
grown  thin. 

Newer  patterns  I'd  be  wearing, 
Strange,  exotic  in  design; 
Brighter  lights  I'd  gaze  at,  flaring 
Where  sweet-scented  flowers  entwine, 
Rather  than  be  ever  watching  burned-out  candles  at  a 
shrine. 

But  the  flaring  lights  burned  faintly 
When  I  tried  to  catch  their  gleam, 
And  my  garment,  fashioned  quaintly, 
With  a  charm  in  every  seam, 

Would  not  let  me  fold  it  round  me,  but  grew  shadowy 
as  a  dream. 

So  I  saw  I  must  put  color 
In  the  faded  dress  I  wore, 
Found  the  candles  were  no  duller 
Than  they  had  been  oft  before, 

Tried  to  fill  my  eyes  with  Stardust  gathered  out  of  fairy 
lore. 

[33] 


Since  the  places  were  unchanging, 
I  must  vary  then  the  hour, 
Find  new  beauty  in  estranging 
Time  and  place,  within  my  power, 
As  by  magic  one  might  pluck  in  dead  of  winter  some 
June  flower. 


So  I  wandered  in  my  garden 
When  the  snow  lay  on  the  ground, 
Saw  the  icy  surface  harden 
To  a  dazzling  crust  that  crowned 
All  the  sleeping  plants  still  waiting  like  myself  for 
spring's  first  sound. 


And  one  night  before  the  morning 
Dawned,  I  climbed  the  attic  stair, 
Heard  the  dark's  half-whispered  warning 
Not  to  brave  its  ghostly  lair, 

Felt  strange  shapes  close  in  around  me,  with  damp 
breaths  of  dismal  air. 


Then  the  week-day  sunlight  stealing 
Through  stained  glass  on  empty  pews, 
Finds  me  solitary,  kneeling; 
While  the  Sunday  rest  I  choose 
To  spend  wandering  through  some  workshop  ere  the 
weekly  roar  renews. 

[34] 


Thus  I  put  the  needed  color 
In  the  faded  dress  I  wore; 
Saw  the  candles  were  no  duller 
Than  they  had  been  oft  before, 

Filled  my  eyes  with  magic  Stardust  found  behind  a 
half -closed  door. 


[35] 


THE  STAR-GAZERS 

From  the  city  street  we  watched  the  sky, 
Between  tall  buildings  a  strip,  dark-blue, 
With  the  stars  behind  it  shining  through 
Like  watchfires  on  high. 

"The  stars  make  me  feel  so  small,"  I  cried, 
"Like  a  traveller  lost  in  a  country  strange; 
Beneath  their  eyes  that  never  change, 
I  have  lost  all  pride." 

But  he  said,  "They  are  signals  that  never  set, 
They  always  guide  if  we  could  but  see. 
For  me  they  spell  my  immortality, 
Gold  framed  in  jet." 


[36] 


GOD'S  ANSWER 

I  cried  aloud  in  my  despair, 
"Why  must  she  go  from  me? 
God  knows  they  cannot  need  her  there 
As  I  do,  ceaselessly." 

God  answered,  "Like  the  morning  lark, 
Her  soul  brought  radiant  dawn. 
We  did  not  know  it  could  be  dark 
In  heaven,  till  she  was  gone. 

I  called  her  home.     New  beauty  lies 
Now  in  this  sacred  place. 
Your  love  reflected  in  her  eyes 
Has  glorified  her  face." 


[37] 


TREASURES 

I  have  a  chest  of  cedar  filled  with  ghosts, 

The  ghosts  of  plays  once  seen,  of  music  heard, 

Of  all  the  wisdom  that  a  classroom  boasts, 

Of  all  the  wealth  stored  in  a  lost  friend's  word. 

I  see  them  sometimes  through  a  mist  half-blurred, 

But  if,  by  chance,  you  looked  at  them  with  me, 

Nothing  but  dusty  papers  would  you  see. 


[38] 


WISHES 

"There  are  three  desires  in  my  heart,"  I  said. 

"Only  three?" 

"The  first  is  to  follow  the  sunset  red, 
As  it  brightens  each  land  from  its  crimson  bed, 

And  each  sea. 

And  then  I  would  be  like  a  singing  lark 

In  the  sky, 

To  rouse  men  out  of  the  slumbrous  dark; 
Like  a  flaming  arrow  to  leave  a  mark 

On  high." 

"And  what  other  wish  would  you  add  to  these  two 

In  your  pride?" 

"Ah!  never  from  me  will  you  gain  the  third  clue, 
Lest  you  see  me  so  humble,  that  swiftly  from  you 

I  must  hide." 


[39] 


THE  BLUE  HOLE 

A  magic  pool, 

Within    a  ring  of  trees  it  lay. 

Its  mossy  sides  sloped  downward  to  the  cool 

Unbottomed  center,  bluish-green, 

Like  some  huge  crater  sunk  between 

Two  shadowy  walls,  where  sunbeams  never  stray. 

But  as  I  lean 

Far  o'er  the  edge  like  any  fool, 

An  elfin  face  returns  my  stare; 

I  find  my  pool  to  be  a  fairy  lair. 


[40] 


THE  SUNDIAL 

In  this  deserted  garden  plot  I  stand, 
Half  over-grown  with  clinging  vines  that  screen 
Me  from  my  lord  the  sun,  whose  face  no  more 
With  bright  and  burning  gaze  looks  into  mine. 
In  my  poor  ignorance  once  I  thought  myself 
A  very  chanticleer,  without  whose  aid 
No  sunshine  e'er  could  find  its  way  to  earth. 
Then  I  was  young,  and  in  my  strong  youth's  pride, 
Boasted,  "I  number  none  but  sunny  hours." 
Ah  well,  I  keep  my  word!  for  since  the  hours 
Beneath  these  shading  trees  have  lost  the  sun, 
I  cease  to  count  them,  and  they  slip  away 
Like  pale,  gray  ghosts  into  eternity. 

'Twas  only  from  the  birds  that  seek  this  shade, 
I  learned  the  sun  still  shines,  though  not  on  me; 
He  has  forgot  the  many  days  I  served  him  well. 
Those  "sunny  hours!"     The  garden  then  was  trim, 
With  straight-cut  borders,  and  the  flowers  bloomed 
For  very  love  of  her  who  tended  them. 
Even  now  at  twilight  when  the  soft  winds  blow, 
I  hear  her  flitting  by  me,  feel  her  hands 
Caressingly  pass  o'er  my  upturned  face, 
To  trace  the  words  she  used  to  love  so  well. 

[41] 


She  too  knew  none  but  cloudless  hours 

In  that  far  happy  time,  and  then  like  mine, 

Her  life  too  lost  the  sun.     So  now  she  haunts 

This  place  of  former  joys.    A  silent  pair 

We  wait  together,  she  and  I,  until 

The  shadows  fade  before  the  sun's  bright  touch, 

And  we  can  count  the  "sunny  hours"  again. 


[42] 


SONGS 

I  sang  out  in  the  woods  today 

All  the  songs  in  my  heart, 
But  only  the  birds  could  hear,  and  they 

Waited  for  me  to  depart. 

In  the  city  tonight  where  I  long  to  please 
All  who  care  for  the  music  I  bring, 

I  find — the  pity  of  it ! — for  these 
I  have  no  songs  to  sing. 


(433 


DISAPPOINTMENTS 

I  will  make  a  web  of  my  disappointments, 

Weaving  their  faded  strands 

Into  a  dull,  monotonous  pattern. 

When  I  spread  it  on  the  grass  at  my  feet 

It  will  look  lifeless, 

But  when  I  lift  it  before  my  eyes, 

Shining  through  it 

I  will  see  the  light  of  hope, 

As  a  moonbeam  struggling 

Through  filmy  cobwebs. 


[44] 


HOLLYHOCKS 

My   window   overlooks    a   wilderness   of   hollyhocks, 

Their  gayly  colored  bells, 

Wine  red,  shell-pink,  or  rose, 

Swaying  with  each  passing  breeze. 

Almost  I  hear  the  chimes  they  ring, 

But   they  are   only  meant   for    fairy  ears   and  bees. 

I  long  to  take  canvas  and  brush 

And  thus  make  them  last  forever, 

But  my  only  canvas  is  this  paper, 

And  the  only  paint  I  can  use  is  words, 

And  I  have  lost  my  palette. 

Who  can  mix  words, 

So  that  the  color  of  my  hollyhocks 

Will  live  upon  this  page, 

And  never  fade? 


[45] 


TO  MY  DOG 

Let's  pretend 

That  I'm  a  portrait  painter, 

Very  famous,  with  my  studio 

Lined  with  lovely  faces, 

Painted  ghosts  that  watch  me  as  I  work. 

But  I  am  sitting  idle,  dreaming, 

Waiting  for  another  face  to  draw, 

And  then  you  come  in  sombre  black, 

Together  with  the  cat  in  flaming  yellow. 

With  the  artist's  love  of  contrasts, 

I  exclaim,  "Here  is  my  subject. 

I  will  paint  you  both  together, 

The  golden  sun  and  its  darkened  shadow." 

The  sun  I  find  an  easy  model, 
For  she  seats  herself  serenely, 
With  faintly  supercilious  air, 
A  rather  bored  and  blase  beauty. 
But  you,  her  shadow, 
How  can  I  paint  you, 
When  you  jump  in  my  lap, 
And  lick  my  face  and  hands 
To  show  how  much  you  love  me? 

Let's  not  pretend  I  am  a  painter  any  more. 
We'll  go  outside  and  have  a  game  of  ball, 
And  leave  the  self-sufficient  cat  behind. 

[46] 


SYMBOLS 

A  spray  of  crimson  tulips 
In  a  carved  jade  bowl, 

Lay  on  a  shelf,  reflected 
Within  a  girandole. 

The  warm  glow  of  the  flowers, 
The  coolness  of  the  jade, 

Upon  the  crystal  surface 
Two  pools  of  color  made. 

I  drank  their  cup  of  beauty, 
Yet  barely  touched  its  brim, 

Unhelped  I  missed  the  depths 
Hid  in  that  goblet  dim. 

For  where  I  saw  a  mirror, 

There  shone  forth  family  pride ; 

And  that  cool  bowl  of  green, 
For  which  a  man  had  died, 

Spelt  fame  in  burning  letters — 
A  priceless  vase,  to  hold 

Symbols  of  greater  worth, 
Of  friendship  tried  and  old. 


[47] 


THE  RAINBOW 

At  the  end  of  the  rainbow  descending 
Deep  into  the  crystalline  ocean, 
Slowly  rocked  by  the  sea's  lazy  motion, 

A  fairy  sits  spinning  all  day. 

The  bow's  radiant  colors  she  seizes 

And  weaves  into  strands,  which  the  breezes 

Waft  over  the  world,  gayly  blending 

Their  hues  with  the  earth's  duller  gray. 


The  red  'neath  her  deft  fingers  springing 
Leaps  to  life  from  the  coal  on  the  ashes, 
In  the  ruby  with  passion  it  flashes, 

Comes  to  rest  in  the  rose's  deep  heart. 
And  the  violet  thread,  darkened,  enriches 
The  royal-hued  iris,  bewitches 

The  throat  of  the  hummingbird  winging 

His  flight  like  a  shimmering  dart. 


O'er  the  soft  blades  of  grass,   the  green   streaming 

From  the  hand  of  the  prodigal  fairy, 

Weaves  a  carpet  of  color,  to  carry 
The  weight  of  the  world's  weary  feet. 

The  sea-foam  that  splashes  and  shivers, 

The  wind-blown  ivy  that  quivers, 
The  emerald's  sheen — all  are  teeming, 
With  the  color  of  springtime  replete. 

[48] 


The  blue  that  the  winds  widely  scatter 
Bathes  the  waves  of  the  sea  as  it  surges 
Towards  the  high-arching  heavens,  then  merges 

Itself  in  the  depths  of  the  skies. 

While  the  threads  that  are  woven  of  yellow 
Gild  the  rising  sun's  rays  warm  and  mellow, 

Or  hide  in  the  rocks,  till  men  shatter 

The  vein  where  their  rough  beauty  lies. 

At  the  end  of  the  day  very  slowly 
All  the  colors  are  blended  together 
Into  white,  like  a  snowy  swan's  feather; 

All  melt  in  a  silvery  mist 

Like  the  dew  when  it  lovingly  showers 
The  slumberous  forms  of  the  flowers. 

And  the  fairy  herself,  pure  and  holy, 

By  myriad  moonbeams  is  kissed. 


[49] 


EYES 


"If  we  could  borrow  other's  eyes," 
I  mused  in  moral  tone,  "what  lies 
Beneath  the  broidered  surface  fair 
Might  give  us  pause,  or  else  some  rare, 
Deep-water  pearl  to  sunlight  brought 
Might  show  us  wealth  beyond  our  thought." 
As  one  for  whom  God  did  unroll 
The  secret  mysteries  of  the  soul, 
I  talked.     My  friend  kept  silent  pace 
Beside  me,  with  immobile  face. 


"That  man  we  passed,"  I  chattered  on, 
Saving  my  speech  till  he  had  gone, 
"To  see  him  smile  you  would  not  know 
His  heart  was  full  of  dead  men's  woe, 
That  holds  him  tortured,  without  rest." 
"He  does  but  show  the  world  his  best; 
You  should  not  rob  him,"  said  my  friend. 

Abashed  I  hastened  to  amend 
My  speech  and  vision.     "There's  a  girl 
Across  the  way,  who  in  the  whirl 
Of  pleasure  strives  to  be  most  bold, 
Flaunting  her  youth  before  the  old. 
Yet  I  have  found  it  but  a  dress 
To  cover  her  tense  loneliness. 
Why  must  men  be  so  cruelly  blind?" 

[50] 


"You  cast  your  questions  down  the  wind, 
And  idle  questions  idly  roam," 
My  friend  replied,  "but  in  your  home 
With  my  poor  eyes  I  see  a  saint, 
One  that  a  master-hand  should  paint. 
Vision  like  yours  so  keen  and  clear, 
Is  blinded  when  the  light  shines  near." 


A  MEMORY  OF  THE  WAR 

I  watched  the  children  playing  yesterday, 

And  heard  their  eager  voices,  vibrant,  gay. 

My  thoughts  turned  toward  the  little  ones  of  France, 

Who  must  be  taught  to  smile,  to  play,  to  dance. 

And  when  the  happy  children's  games  were  done, 
I  saw  them  fasten  hands  and  homeward  run. 
The  picture  of  a  ruined  street  flashed  clear, 
Marked  with  a  cross,  "My  father's  house  stood  here." 

Men  needs  must  bear  the  war's  cruel,  grinding  cost, 
Still  they  at  least  once  had  the  thing  they  lost. 
But  children,  old  from  fear ! — what  sight  more  sad ! — 
For  they  have  lost  the  things  they  never  had. 


[52] 


DREAMS 
Characters:  BARBARA,  AGATHA,  GERTRUDE. 

AGATHA 

Ah !  Barbara,  my  child,  why  do  you  weep  ? 
Your  eyes  that  look  so  strained  from  many  tears 
Have  not  been  used  to  mirror  all  your  moods 
So  plainly. 

BARBARA 

You  have  given  the  reason  there. 
In  all  my  life  I've  known  but  passing  moods, 
And  it  was  rather  fun  to  fool  the  world; 
You've  never  been  quite  sure,  although  I  laughed, 
How  gay  or  sad  my  heart  was.     Now  I've  found 
That  I  can  play  no  more.     This  is  no  mood, 
To  pass  away  as  others  have.     I've  lost — 

AGATHA 
What  have  you  lost? 

BARBARA 
A  dream. 

AGATHA 

'Tis  better  so. 

BARBARA 

Better?     You  know  not  what  you  say.     My  dream 
Was  all  my  life.     It  seems  I  should  be  dead 
Now  it  has  gone,  but  I  am  only  cold. 
It's  strange  I  cannot  laugh. 

[53] 


GERTRUDE 

What  was  your  dream? 

BARBARA 
The  vision  of  a  perfect  knight. 

GERTRUDE 

Poor  child! 

BARBARA 

Of  one  who  had  no  fear  in  all  the  world 
Save  only  that  of  ever  losing  me. 
It  was  no  idle  dream.     I  could  have  sworn 
If  you  had  asked  me  only  yesterday, 
That  I  had  truly  found  him.     He  seemed  all 
My  heart  had  longed  for — till  he  ran  away. 
Oh !  not  from  me !     I  think  he  lacked  that  force. 
He  fled  from  fighting  in  a  losing  cause, 
Because,  he  said,  he  wished  to  save  his  strength 
For  better  things,  and  this  lost  fight  was  none 
Of  his  own  choosing.     Who  elects  to  lose? 
But  I  had  rather  watch  my  ship  go  down, 
Knowing  her  safety  lies  within  my  care, 
Than  sail  away  to  some  bright  tropic  isle 
Where  "better  things"  await  me,  leaving  her 
Alone  to  beat  her  life  out  'gainst  the  waves. 
Some  wind  might  bring  her  safe  to  port.    Who  knows? 
Lost  causes  are  not  always  lost,  but  dreams 
Once  broken  never  find  their  wings  again. 

[54] 


GERTRUDE 

They  seem  like  fragile  butterflies,  my  child, 
But  I  have  found  that  dreams  have  eagles'  wings, 
That  bear  you  soaring  to  the  heights  of  heaven. 
If  you  have  dreams  you  live  on  mountain  peaks. 
I  lived  there  once,  and  then  I  clambered  down 
By  slow  degrees  till  now  the  level  plain 
Has  swallowed  up  my  life.     If  you  have  lost 
One  peak,  fly  on  to  other  heights.     Your  wings 
Are  only  bruised,  not  broken.     Fly  again. 
The  air  on  eagles'  wings  is  better  far 
Than  slothful  valley  ease. 

BARBARA 

The  air  is  cold. 

GERTRUDE 
Not  colder  than  a  burned  out  fire. 

AGATHA 

My  child, 

She  counsels  most  unwisely.     All  too  well 
I  know  how  cold  the  heights  are  and  how  lonely. 
When  I  was  young  I  dreamed  (who  does  not  dream?) 
As  you  have  done,  and  I  preferred  to  soar 
High  overhead,  to  wander  at  my  will 
Free  from  all  petty  cares.     I  made  my  choice 
And  I  have  lived  my  life  above  the  clouds. 

[55] 


The  air  is  clear  and  sight  is  doubly  keen, 
But  I  know  now  the  valley  fire  is  better. 
Not  broken  wings  alone  can  make  one  fall; 
Wings  can  grow  tired  for  lack  of  place  to  rest. 
Besides,  your  dream  was  of  a  perfect  knight, 
You  say,  who  played  you  false.    He  may  perhaps 
Through  trusting  in  your  faith,  think  that  of  you. 
You  also  may  be  but  a  faded  dream. 
You  spoke  so  bravely  just  a  moment  since 
Of  standing  for  lost  causes.     Why  not  be 
The  champion  of  lost  dreams? 

BARBARA 

My  dream  is  dead. 

AGATHA 
If  it  were  dead  it  would  not  hurt  you  so. 

BARBARA 

You  think  it  is  alive?     Don't  torture  me 

With  hopes  that  are  not  true. —  His  dream  of  me, 

I  had  not  thought  of  that — is  it  quite  dead? 

If  I  should  try  to  give  it  wings  again 

It  might  teach  mine  to  fly.     What  do  you  think? 

Two  dreams  together  would  not  fear  the  cold. 

Besides  I  would  not  fly  so  high  again. 

Ill  go  to  tell  him  now. 

[56] 


GERTRUDE 
[To  Agatha.] 

What  have  you  done? 
You're  proud  of  having  tamed  an  eagle's  wings? 

AGATHA 
I'm  glad  of  having  warmed  them  at  the  fire. 


[57] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-40m-7,'56(C790s4)444 


Vv 


THE  LltfKAKY 
ITNIVEKS1TY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


PS Anderson  - 


3501      Iliieb  of  thoughts 


A    000  920  753     1 


AtiG  2  6   1957 


PS 
3501 


